


The hollow ache within his chest

by obsolete_ocelot



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anxiety, Drabble, Headcanon, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Sorry, Internal Conflict, Internal Monologue, Meta, Other, Perfectionism, Performance, Purple Prose, inadequacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 20:20:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9200858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obsolete_ocelot/pseuds/obsolete_ocelot
Summary: His life has always been a performance...... Aka flowery writing about mal-adaptive perfectionism and Viktor.... Aka dialoguelessness writing is a habit I might never break, I'm sorry write club.





	

Viktor didn't like to be touched. No, that wasn't the truth. What Viktor didn't like was the hollow ache within his chest. So old and familiar was this abscess that he didn't know what tools had shaped it. Only that that which subdued it left him cold and numb. Only that that which distressed it left him shattered or worse.

Apathy and turmoil; he lived between the heights of their oscillation. And so he learned to be calculating. Learned to strike a balance between the two for survival. He had to catalog each pain and cauterize each wound along the way. 

As the data was compiled, he began to extrapolate his greatest performance. The one he enacted each morning. He understood the precise moment between adoration and disregard. It was vital to his survival. He could keep them watching, sitting at the edge of their seats, demands half formed on parted lips, until the weight of their expectation brought him to his knees. 

He knew how to invoke desire, adoration, envy. How to be savage and leave them pining. How to make them love him, but still remain untouchable. He knew that to be alone was the price for survival. He knew that just because something was hollow didn't make it meaningless. He knew that he could be sustained from a distance. His belief in these statements was all that he had.

But when he slept..

... he dreamt of movements so powerful they could only be explained in poetry and music. Evoked emotions that could only be understood when they were shared. Those movements lived within that hollow ache until he woke. Their loss a new death each morning. Their rebirth a new, fearful hope. Every routine he made was a carefully concealed message, a quest to recreate them, a sacrifice to protect them, an appeal that someone might dare reach past the distance to touch him and say...

You are enough.


End file.
